Press Play
by stuttgart
Summary: In order to save Rachel's life, Quinn must strike a deal with the Devil. In order to save herself, Quinn must make Rachel fall in love with her all over again. AU.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: Glee characters, any songs mentioned, and Sylvia Plath's quote=not mine**

 **The prologue is in first person POV and the first chapter is in third person limited POV (both Quinn).**

 **Angus and Julia Stone-The Devil's Tears (great song, check it out)**

 **Sylvia Plath quote-The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath**

 **Jeff Buckley-Hallelujah**

 **This story will probably be around 15 chapters long.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

* * *

 **Press Play**

 **Prologue**

My therapist doesn't even know I'm suicidal.

I guess that says something about me.

Two years. It's been two years. I never thought I'd be here for two years later—not that I consider that an accomplishment.

I always thought that I was emotionally unmovable. Santana, the friend I can tolerate for more than half an hour, compares my emotional variability to Eeyore, the down-and-out donkey from Winnie the Pooh.

She's not completely wrong.

It's humorous in the worst way. In elementary school, several of my teachers thought that I had some sort of medical condition.

After extensive talk therapy my therapist concluded that I'm dysthymic; in other words, a life-long Debbie Downer. However, I personalized my diagnosis by having a devil-may-care personality.

Growing up people thought I was moderately off-beat. Luckily, I was functional enough in conversation and mannerisms to pass off as _different_.

 _Quinn? Oh, she's just a little different._

If not for my inherent social intuition that I use only when necessary I'd probably be a rumored school shooter. Or maybe movie theater shooter. Some sort of shooter.

Rachel never thought I was different. Or a possible shooter.

The first and last day that I saw her are the ones that count. We fell in love between those days. We didn't just fall in love—it's like she reached into me and changed the molecular structure of my brain.

For the first time in my life I was able to feel _happy_.

January 3rd, 2008. That was the first day I saw Rachel Berry.

I was swaddled in layers of coats. My scarf wasn't even a scarf. It was a blanket. I never thought the snow was enjoyable— not even as a child.

I despise snow, and I loathe being cold.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" I remember saying. I don't recall if I had a scowl plastered on my face but knowing me, that's a safe gamble to make. I was somewhere between a walk and a run going down 53rd street.

That was the day I had decided on a whim to go to The Museum of Modern Art in New York City.

Not exactly because I'm an art fanatic. I went because I _adore_ artists. I adore the tortured artist stereotype. Some people avert their eyes and ignore the dark corners of the human experience, but I could never look away.

While my classmates were preoccupied with Gwen Stefani, I was fawning over Sylvia Plath.

I was close to the entrance of MoMA when I saw her. While the people around her, including myself, were actively trying to get out of the cold and the snow she was sitting on a bench, _smiling_.

Not the kind of smile that is shared with another person; no, she was smiling just to smile, it face was tilted up to the grey sky. She wasn't looking at anything— she couldn't be because her eyes were closed.

I'll admit that I paused just to observe at her. To a photographer's eye this might be a picture perfect moment. The way the snowflakes dusted her brown hair, the way her legs were crossed at her ankles, the way her shoulders shrugged back— in a word, content. She appeared content.

I remember the incredulous look I gave her which only became more pronounced when her bottom lip parted from the top. Her grin was larger now, if that was possible.

Then words spilled from her lips. Not just words— she was _singing_.

Why wasn't anyone questioning her sanity? I don't particularly enjoy confrontation or else I would have.

 _"But you don't really care for music, do you?"_

People were stopping one by one to stare at the girl on the bench. Some shared my expression, some were wide-eyed, some were smiling because the singing girl was smiling. Her simple joy was catching like a cold among school children.

She was disarming the growing crowd around her. As if under a strange spell it was apparent that destinations, responsibilities, and the hypothermia-inducing weather were temporarily forgotten.

People swarmed around her like a moth to flame. It was like she had decided to fill in for the sun while the sun was on vacation.

At that point I didn't notice that I had stopped shivering, but it didn't matter to me that she had become a blockade for the frosty gusts of wind.

I needed to look away. I needed to run away.

I can take interest in suicide, homicide, depression, drug abuse, self-mutilation—anything like that. It's incredibly difficult for me to look upon happiness.

I had always fostered a dislike for people who were happy or even content _just because._ I was nearly positive that if I had asked the singing girl _why_ she was happy her response would have been: _I just am._

And so I didn't stick around for the end of the Jeff Buckley song. Not because it wasn't a soulful rendition, but because I couldn't stand that the girl seemed happy for no reason at all.

I was pessimist to a fault.

Years later, I realized that I couldn't stand her smile or the way she embraced the cold or the way she sang for no reason at all because I could _never_ be like her.

Sylvia Plath wrote that she wanted to _live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in her life. And she is horribly limited._

 ** _I_** _am horribly limited._ The girl on the bench seemed _unlimited_.

* * *

I sat outside of our apartment in Chelsea on the wrought iron bench waiting for Rachel to get home.

That was on November 7th, 2013

Brown, dead leaves were crunching beneath my feet. They were a great distraction from the anxiety I felt coursing through me.

The lump in my jacket pocket reminded me of what I was about to do and the crumpled note beside it reminded me of what I was about to say. I thought I was going to throw up from nervousness.

Minutes turned into two hours. A mildly comfortable sixty-five degrees turned into forty-five. The nervousness that I had about proposing turned into a different kind.

I called her cell phone. No answer.

I called again. Nothing.

It's two years later and still nothing. She never came home that night.

All the reports said the same thing: the truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and t-boned the taxi Rachel was in.

Out of the thousands of taxis buzzing around, out of the dozens of large work trucks, and out of the miles of pavement in New York City— why Rachel?

It was just unlucky happenstance.

Rachel would have lived if she had been on the other side of the taxi. Rachel would have lived if she had hailed that taxi five minutes later. Rachel would have lived if the taxi driver had taken a different route. Rachel would have lived if the truck driver wasn't so over-worked.

I had to have a reason for everything, but I still can't rationalize why Rachel isn't here with me now. There is no reason why.

I guess it was just the way the stars aligned that day.

Today is November 7th, 2015. I don't care that I'm in a crowd of people. I have my recorder in my hand. Just like two years ago, I have her ring and the note I wrote for her in my pocket. I press record, ignoring the few stray glances directed at me.

"Hey, Rach,

"Do you remember how I told you about the first day I saw you? You were sitting where I'm sitting right now. I thought you were crazy, you know.

"I know you don't know but the night you died I was going to propose to you. I—I still think that you'll come home one day. I wish it had been me in the taxi instead.

"Remember when you made me that list? _How to be Happy_ by Rachel Berry? I thought you were out of it—you told me dancing in the rain was the key to happiness.

"I showed up outside of your apartment that night in a hellish storm. I called and told you to come dance with me. I wanted to see if you were right.

"So we danced in the rain. We danced until all we could do was sway back and forth. I don't know if I felt happy, but know I had to kiss you. So I did.

"God, Rach, I don't know who I am anymore. The only thing I know is that I love you and that I don't want to live anymore. So I won't.

"The five years I spent with you—they were the best of my life. All I do now is sit in my apartment trying to remember every detail.

"I know this isn't what you would've wanted. You'd tell me to try to be okay. You'd tell me that it's okay to not feel okay—but that I had to try.

"Rachel, I'm tired of trying. It just hurts. I love you. So much. Maybe I'll see you wherever I end up. I hope so."

* * *

 **Chapter One  
The Devil's Tears**

November 7th, 2015, 2:45 p.m.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, you gotta move your car. You can't park here."

Quinn barely heard him but nodded as if she had. Several seconds passed.

"Don't make me give you a ticket. Please, move." She finally glanced up and met the aging officer's irritated scowl. She started to reach for her purse and he jolted as if she was reaching for a weapon.

"I'm not— look, this is the last place I've got to go today." Quinn pulled out several crisp hundreds. "Just five more minutes. Please."

Quinn held out her hand with the bills between her middle and pointer finger. The scowl disappeared and he eyed her speculatively and let out a tired sigh.

"You mind telling me why you're willing to fork over several hundred dollars _just_ to sit here for five more minutes?"

She didn't look up. Instead, she sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on the intersection. "I do mind. It's not anything illegal. _Please_ , just a few more minutes." The apathetic tone of her voice broke as tears welled in her eyes.

The officer frowned causing his withered face to reveal more wrinkles. "Alright, alright, I'm going to write you a warning. Gonna take about five minutes." He took the money with a knowing look and leaned against a light pole a few feet away from Quinn's red VW bug.

Her eyes didn't leave the intersection. The tire marks were gone, the glass and chunks of metal were no where to be seen. The yellow chalk used on the road to map out how the wreck happened had been washed away. It looked strangely peaceful.

Quinn wondered if the people who passed through knew that someone special had died here. She knew that this place only served as a passing point— just to get from one place to the other. Quiet and meaningless.

But to her, it was loud and ever present in her thoughts. She imagined what the metal sounded like when it crunched, how the glass sounded when it shattered. She didn't even notice when the officer walked back to her window.

"Time's up. Here's your warning. I—I don't know what's going on, but I hope it works out," the officer muttered with a nod and left.

* * *

"Quinn Fabray! I was wondering when you'd get here."

Quinn blinked rapidly, unable to clear her cloudy vision. After several seconds passed some clarity returned and she gazed around the room.

It looked like an office in a New York City high rise, except the large window behind the shadow of a man didn't look at all like the place she called home. Two lamps on either end of the massive oak desk illuminated red, giving the large, dimly lit space an eery glow.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to get here— you made it in three days!" The shadow clapped loudly and each time his hands met his shape became more defined.

The man before looked like someone out of a black and white movie. She pegged him to be to be in his forties, maybe early fifties. Quinn was leaning toward the former due to his glassy, combed-back black hair.

"Where am I?"

He beamed at her while scrunching his eyebrows together as if saying— _seriously? You're that obtuse?_

"Oh, gosh, you know, I'd rather not jump into that just yet. I'm quite excited to meet you. I've been your biggest fan for—well, since the day you were born!" The man boomed while sporting a wide grin.

Quinn had decided that she _must_ be in Hell. Instead of buildings skyrocketing into the sky or trees swaying against the glass, she only saw fire on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling window

"I'm—this is Hell, right? That's what this is?" Quinn gestured to the walls around her. "So you must be… let me guess, the Devil?"

Quinn wheezed out a disbelieving chuckle, the humor of the situation pulling her out of her previous stupor. The man before her continued to smile, his blacker than black and neatly trimmed facial hair framing his pearly white teeth.

"Now, now, Quinn, let's not jump to conclusions. The first thing you need to know is that your little suicide attempt was widely successful and completely dramatic. Women don't usually use guns. I applaud your performance." He stooped into a playful bow and bounded up just as quickly. His soft voice permeated throughout the room, and it confused Quinn to associate the word soft with the Devil.

"The second thing that you need to know is that I have many names—well, names that have been given to me over the years. However, these days I prefer Steve. Steve is a very unassuming name while Devil, Lucifer, Satan— those all make me sound old and quite frankly, mean." The Devil chuckled, amused at his self-proclaimed name. His laugh was melodic and slightly contagious.

Quinn rubbed at her eyes and tried to will "Steve" away. The five second eye rub didn't work. Steve is still there and so are the flames.

"And Quinnie, Quinn, Quinn! This isn't Hell!" He side-stepped and pointed out the enormous window behind him. "That's Hell. This is simply my office." Flames licked the panes of glass.

"Thank _God_ for this sound proof room, huh? I simply don't think I could _deal_ with an _eternity_ of screaming." He shuddered jokingly and winked, his pressed grey and pin-striped suit crinkling with each move he made.

The more Steve jabbered the more Quinn laughed. Her sides were beginning to hurt. Quinn has seen strange days but none stranger than today.

He didn't look at all like the what the Devil is supposed to look like. No horns or hooves. He just looked like a normal person.

"Why am I here? I never doubted that if Hell existed, I'd be in it, but why aren't I out there?" Quinn stated after sobering up and jabbed a finger out the window.

Before the Devil could respond Quinn had an epiphany. "Rachel's in Heaven, right? She has to be there. She's never done anything wrong," Quinn said despondently, heartbroken that they were now both dead and still apart.

"You know, Quinnie, I have no idea who's in Heaven or what the Big Man is up to, all I know is that Rachel is not here. Why do you think you belong in the fire, hmm?" His head tilted to the side, seemingly interested.

Quinn didn't say anything.

"Well, the _real_ reason you're here is because the committee and I have decided that we all are truly touched by yours and Rachel's love and we have a little wager going on. We have a proposition for you," he said excitedly while bouncing his feet.

Quinn scoffed.

"There are books and songs and movies that advise against _this_ ," Quinn motioned with her hand between the two.

His boisterous laugh bounced off the empty walls. "You're silly," he said while flapping a hand at her. Was the Devil a flamboyant gay man? Quinn decided against asking.

"Before I offer you our proposition you should know that I am _not_ at all the horrible being you've been raised to assume that I am. Big Man up there doesn't like competition so he and his acquaintances paint me as quite the villain. I'll have you know that I'm on _your_ side, Quinn."

Quinn opened her mouth to ask about the proposition but he quieted her with a raised finger.

"Do you like Katy Perry?" His tone was frighteningly serious, and Quinn was afraid to say no so she decided, once again, to not say anything.

"Oh, she's _fantastic_! I saw her in concert last year. Mind you, I had to possess a susceptible individual in order to attend, but _gosh_ , it was worth it. Would you like to listen to her latest album before we discuss our proposition?"

"No," Quinn deadpanned, hoping that this conversation had a point. Steve looked put out.

"Your loss. Hm, where were we?" He tapped his chin lightly, seemingly distracted by my obvious dislike of Katy Perry. "Oh! Right, the proposition. Okay, _so_ ," he stood up quickly and sat on the edge of the front of his desk.

"My colleagues and I had a little meeting and we've decided to give you and your beloved a second chance."

Quinn's interest peaked and she stared intently at the character before her.

"We went back and forth for hours about what the conditions will be, and this and that. Finally, one of my demons came up with the _perfect_ pitch," he paused, waiting for Quinn's excitement to catch up to his. If anything, Quinn grew more wary.

"I will send you back to the day you saw Rachel for the first time. You will have two weeks for her to fall in love with you. She must say that she's in love with you, and you cannot say it first. You also cannot explain to her our little agreement."

Quinn decided to participate in the conversation. "What if she doesn't?"

"If she doesn't, Quinn, and I very much hope that she will, then I lose the bet. And I hate losing," his face became grim and he finally looked somewhat Devil-like. "Like anything in life, there will be consequences for you as well as for me.

"If _you_ fail I will have to grow my horns out and keep them at their full length for one-hundred years. _Ugh_ ," he shuddered.

"And Rachel? What'll happen her? To us?"

"If you agree to my proposition, your soul is mine. Fail or succeed, you will die on the fourteenth day. Rachel, on the other hand, will live—it'll be as if she never died. If you succeed, I will relinquish my claim to your soul. If you fail, you and I will share an eternity together. Of course, you'll be out there," he chuckled while nodding to the blazing fire.

Quinn's mouth gaped and she felt slightly dazed. "You only have to grow out your horns?" She knew that detail wasn't important, but she asked anyways. Was any of this real? She lightly pinched her arm.

The Devil grimaced when he noticed Quinn's shock. "Oh, I really despise those horns. Those pointy abominations age me. I think it's fair, I _really_ do."

He quirked one eyebrow and gauged her reaction before he continued.

Quinn mulled over his words, pursing her lips.

"If you reject my proposal Rachel will still be dead. Even worse, I won't be able to add your soul to my vast collection. Both are _very_ tragic outcomes, Quinn. Don't you want to save Rachel Berry?"

"Why give me a choice at all? Why—why are you doing this?" Quinn wondered, trying to fathom how burning for an eternity will feel. She was grasping at a sense of self-preservation but failing miserably. She knew she'd sell her soul to the Devil for Rachel.

"Because, Quinn, there's _always_ a choice. How much are you willing to suffer? How much are you willing to give up to save the person you love?"

 _I'll suffer forever, I'll give up my soul— Rachel was never meant to die at twenty-four._

The Devil crept forward until he was within arm's reach of Quinn. "What do you say, Quinnie? Let's shake on it," he offered his hand and showed his teeth.

She didn't care if her soul was damned and she didn't care if she'd burn forever. Without another thought she met his hand and whispered, "okay."

"Lovely," he growled while tucking a pocket watch into her palm. Startled at his tone of voice, Quinn glanced up and was met with a figure much taller than the man from a few seconds ago.

As soon as her brain processed the creature before her, speckles of black filled her vision and led her into unconsciousness.

 _I'll taste the devil's tears_

 _Drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you_

 _-Angus and Julia Stone_

* * *

 **The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1(800) 273-8255. If you or anyone you know is going through depression, please don't consider suicide an option. I had someone close to me commit suicide, and it hurt more than I can say. After he died I sank pretty low, and I'll admit I thought about taking my life. But I just couldn't-I didn't want one moment in my life to end the rest of it. There are people out there who care, I promise. Please get help.**


	2. Chapter Two

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story.**

 **Someone asked why it would matter if Quinn is going die either way after fourteen days—it's really just to see how much Quinn is willing to give up for Rachel. I know it seems like an awful deal. For the people worried that this is going to be an angsty and death-filled story—it has its moments, but it won't be totally tragic all the way through. Thanks again!**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **Day One**

Is it possible to die from a hangover?

Quinn groaned and rolled over. She didn't remember drinking last night; even so, she was ninety-ninety percent positive that dying from hangover is not a pleasant way to go.

"Quinn, you've got to wake up. You're skirting awfully close to being late."

The unfamiliar voice caused Quinn to bolt off the edge of the bed and land with a painful _thunk_. The blankets wrapped around her like chains and she was unable to back away.

"Who the fuck are you?" Quinn yelled. Her feet kicked against the icy floor as she attempted to back against the wall.

This was it—Quinn was sure that the end was near. She was going to die in her underwear and a high school t-shirt, which is tragically embarrassing.

The man standing in the corner didn't seem phased by Quinn's outburst. He puffed his cheeks and blew out a gust of air, causing his brown, curly hair to fall over his forehead.

"You dropped this," he smirked, holding a pocket watch between his fingers. He tossed the gold-plated object at Quinn. She didn't move to catch it.

"I suppose you don't remember. Traveling to Hell and back'll do that to a person. To a mortal," he said off-handedly and stepped away from the wall he had been leaning against. He moved to pick up the watch.

Quinn's heart thudded against her chest with the force of an impending heart attack.

"Here," he offered the watch to her and walked backwards to the bed. "You're not going to talk, are you? Well, I have been a bit rude. My name is Jesse St. James. No, I'm not here to kill you—not yet, anyway. Do you know what year it is?"

Quinn hesitated. "2015. Telling me your name doesn't tell me why you're here. And what kind of sick shit is that? _Not yet?_ "

Jesse pursed his lips. "No, Quinn. It's 2008. I'm here to guide you through the next two weeks—you've already wasted half a day."

"No, _Jesse_. It's 2015, and I still don't—" the sneer on Quinn's face fell.

She had a habit of running her hands through her hair whenever she felt frustrated. Quinn didn't remember there being two lumps on either side of her head.

"That's where you shot yourself. The headache you have will go away," Jesse explained without looking at Quinn. His eyes were fixed on the watch Quinn had yet to pick up. "Do you remember yet? I need you think hard if you don't."

It was like trying to remember what caused deja vu. Quinn rubbed at her head— _I shot myself?_ If she had shot herself, she wasn't sure why she'd want to remember; regardless, she walked back through her memories.

 _What was I doing before I woke up?_

She was in her car parked by the intersection where Rachel died. _What did I do after that? Where did I go?_ Quinn had left Manhattan to find someplace quiet. She could remember the handgun that she bought the day before. Quinn inhaled a breath quickly.

"That wasn't a dream?" Quinn asked. Her fingers grazed the pocket watch. It didn't look like a watch at all. A narrow strip of green light traveled around the circular edge and fourteen indentations notched the outer ring.

"No, Quinn, it wasn't a dream."

Quinn had a rotten feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Rachel's alive?"

"It's 2008, so yes, Rachel is alive."

Jesse's eyes met Quinn's briefly.

"Rachel has the rest of her life. You don't. As soon as that," Jesse said while nodding at the watch, "runs out, meaning the green is replaced with black, you will be dead."

"I'll be dead," Quinn repeated quietly. For some reason, this didn't bother her. Rachel is _alive_.

"I'm going back to sleep. I don't really see any point in making her fall in love with me if I'm only going to die in two weeks. Goodnight, whoever you are," Quinn said after several long seconds.

"That's not part of the agreement. You have—" Quinn cut him off. She stood up slowly from the floor and wrapped the blanket tightly around her shoulders.

"I don't _have_ to do anything. What is it that the Devil, or Satan, or _Steve_ —whatever the fuck his name is—didn't he say that everything is a choice? This is my choice. I'm not going to hurt Rachel. If she's happy and alive, then let it be. Now _move_."

Jesse didn't move. Instead, he shifted his weight back onto his hands and lounged upright on her bed.

"You seem to be forgetting who you're dealing with."

Quinn scowled. "I killed myself and then sold my soul to the Devil so that Rachel could have the life she was supposed to have. Does it look like I care what happens to me?"

"Maybe not, but you _do_ care what happens to Rachel, yes? Fifteen minutes, Quinn. You have fifteen minutes to get to the Museum of Modern Arts. I have a bad feeling that a taxi is about to crush Ms. Berry. I'll see you there," Jesse said while walking toward the door.

"Oh, and Quinn?" Jesse peaked his head into the bedroom. "I happened to like this body. Jesse's a good guy—got a wife and kids at home waiting for him. But he'll soon be dead because you couldn't fulfill your end of the deal."

"Fuck you," Quinn spat.

Jesse was gone before Quinn could try to stop him.

* * *

It was _cold._

Quinn could barely breathe. Chilled air burned her lungs as her feet hammered against the icy sidewalk. If there was time she would have taken a taxi.

She rounded the corner on the opposite side of MoMA. _Rachel_.

There she was again—smiling with her eyes closed. The very first time Quinn saw her she was on Rachel's left standing near a bent parking meter. She could only see Rachel's profile.

Now Quinn was across the street seeing from an entirely different angle. She wished she could just watch Rachel _be_ Rachel like the first time.

Fourteen minutes.

"Rachel! Rachel!" Quinn waved her arms frantically. The noise from a car passing competed with Quinn's efforts—it's not like a jay-walking ticket will matter after two weeks.

"Rachel, move!"

Quinn dodged several cars. Two taxi drivers blared their horns. She nearly toppled over a cyclist.

She wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline or if time was lagging, but she felt like she was in a nightmare. The kind of nightmare where it's impossible to go faster. Rachel was only ten steps away but Quinn felt like she was running through deep mud.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a taxi weaving in and out unlike the rest—driving even _worse_ than the average New York City cabbie. Jessie was zeroed in on Rachel.

Rachel was looking at Quinn now, her brown eyes wide with confusion.

"Rach, move! Get off the bench!"

Rachel was seemingly frozen in her spot, oblivious to the hunk of metal on wheels flying at her.

 _Fuck it._

Quinn hunched over with her arms out. The cement didn't feel like quicksand anymore and her feet left the ground easily. Rachel's mouth opened to protest Quinn's approaching tackle. She even got up to _move._

 _Now she's moving?_ Quinn thought. Rachel's snail-like pace wasn't fast enough to avoid the taxi _or_ Quinn.

Quinn's right arm tucked underneath Rachel's knees and her left arm wrapped around her torso. Rachel let out a whimper as if she was being kidnapped instead of rescued.

Several people stared but it wasn't at Quinn holding the smaller girl bridal-style.

Hardly a second later Jessie's stolen taxi hopped the curb and sailed into the bolted-down metal bench. Quinn's legs nearly gave out from exhaustion and she stumbled the last few steps.

The sound of metal bending and cracking caused Rachel's arm to wrap tightly around Quinn's neck. She tucked her head into the taller girl's chest.

Rachel never did take well to be startled. On their second Halloween together Quinn had decided she wanted to scare Rachel. Her prank ended with Rachel furious and near tears. That was the year she was banned from "tomfoolery."

Even if Quinn was taking advantage of Rachel's paralyzed state of mind, she didn't care. She tugged the brunette closer. Rachel shifted slightly in Quinn's arms.

Quinn's senses were overwhelmed. Rachel smelled like _home_. Rachel felt like _home_.

"Someone call 911! Is anyone a doctor?"

The taxi creaked heavily and the sound of a body falling to the ground quieted the crowd's shocked whispers. The yellow crown vic's back end was propped up on what was left of the bench.

Quinn couldn't see Jessie's body but she could see his shadow writhing. He was seizing.

Rachel shifted again as Quinn guiltily looked away from the dying man. "Um… I can…" Rachel began slowly.

 _Please don't ask me to put you down,_ Quinn begged silently.

"I can stand," Rachel finished.

Quinn reluctantly lowered her until both feet were steadily planted on the ground. Quinn kept her hand on Rachel's shoulder, desperate for contact.

"Are you okay?" Quinn asked.

Rachel's head bobbed between Quinn and the taxi. It was rare to see Rachel lost for words and Quinn had to stop herself from smiling.

"I—yes, I'm fine. Are you okay? I'm so sorry, I thought you were crazy. I didn't even see," Rachel shook her head back and forth and waved a hand at the wreckage. "I just _sat_ there. I almost died. _You_ almost died. You saved my life."

Quinn swayed her weight onto her right foot and stuffed both hands into her jacket's pockets. She didn't feel like a savior. She focused on the sound of sirens close by instead of on Rachel's reverent expression.

 _"_ Oh…no—I, um, I'm fine," Quinn said. She couldn't think of anything else to say.

"You know my name. Have we met?" Rachel's eyebrows furrowed. She looked like she wanted to say more. Rachel gaped at the taxi's crushed front end.

 _You knew me for_ five _years._

"Yes—well, no, we haven't," Quinn answered quickly. Her attention was pulled to the multitude of vehicles flocking to the steaming taxi. Curious onlookers were shooed away.

Since when have the paramedics and cops ever arrived so quickly to a wreck? Quinn wondered if Jessie had told the police beforehand.

Several EMTs were at Jessie's side. Quinn couldn't look once the chest compressions began.

"Rachel, would you like hot chocolate? There's a place down the road," Quinn said. She walked away and hoped Rachel would follow.

Quinn glanced over her shoulder and gave Rachel a lop-sided smile. The girl she knew would use her first born as a bargaining chip for quality hot chocolate. The brunette's eyes turned into saucers.

"Of course! Hot chocolate is possibly—no, hot chocolate is my favorite beverage. I mean, hot chocolate could end wars. Think about it: if instead of fighting, everyone was just like, 'hey, let's drink hot chocolate and call it a day?' Who would object to that?" Rachel rambled.

Quinn never minded the way she always said more than she needed to.

* * *

Rachel beamed at Quinn with her fingers curled around the steaming cup.

The coffee place the two were in seemed out of place in New York City. It was just quaint enough to look like it didn't belong among the buildings filled with businessmen and women.

"Are you going to tell me your name now? It's only fair if you already know mine," Rachel teased. The pair were settled into a booth near the only window. Quinn squinted into the fog settling onto the road.

Quinn wanted to be angry. She wanted to yell at the girl across from her—she wanted to remind Rachel of their love, of their life. But she couldn't. Because it hasn't happened yet. Quinn didn't think it would ever happen.

"Quinn Fabray," Quinn said after deciding against terrorizing the shorter girl.

"Thank you for saving my life, Quinn Fabray. I have to ask again—how do you know my name? I know you wanted to get away from the wreck so you didn't get a chance to answer before," Rachel rushed out. Her eyes bulged before Quinn could respond.

"Wait, should we have stayed? Did we just commit a crime by fleeing the scene? I don't think I can handle jail time…" Rachel trailed off. Quinn wasn't sure if she remembered the first question. Rachel sipped at her hot chocolate while fidgeting with a sugar packet.

"I, um, I saw you perform in Toshi's Living Room," Quinn replied. She had no idea if they should have stayed. Jail wasn't an option given her limited time.

"Really?" Rachel's face lit up. Quinn nodded with a smile.

"Yeah, you were great. I'm no fortune teller but I'm sure Broadway's in your future," Quinn said with a wink. She already knew Rachel would end up on Broadway. Quinn wondered if she should invest in stocks.

"Are you sure we haven't met? How'd you know I wanted to be on Broadway?" Rachel's eyes narrowed slightly. Quinn shrugged.

"I just…assumed? You have the voice for Broadway, so…" Quinn offered, hoping Rachel would buy it.

"Thank you. You assumed correctly. One day, Quinn. One day I'll be a Broadway star and to thank you for saving me I'll give you tickets to every show."

Quinn thrummed her fingers despondently against her cup. She wasn't sure how to respond. She wasn't sure how to talk to _this_ Rachel—to the Rachel who didn't know her. She wanted to keep her distance, but it was proving to be difficult.

"So… are you from New York, or did you move here?" Rachel finally asked. She never did like awkward pauses.

"Yes, I grew up here."

"What do you do?"

"I work in advertising. I write for commercials," Quinn replied after gulping her coffee.

"That sounds like an incredible job. But you seem very young to have already worked your way into the business?" Rachel wondered aloud.

"Not really, I'm twenty-six so I've had time to work my way up," Quinn said without thinking. Her eyes widened when she realized her mistake. Rachel's eyebrows quirked up.

"You don't look twenty-six," Rachel said after a beat.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking of the number twenty-six and that came out. I'm eighteen. My parents knew some people in the business. I guess I'm a little off after—um, after the taxi…thing." Quinn floundered.

"Did you know that the laugh track you hear in some TV shows were recorded in the 1950s? Assuming those people were adults, most are probably dead now. So I guess it's like hearing dead people laugh?" Quinn said quickly.

 _Did I just say that? Oh God, so not worth trying to keep her from over-analyzing that I gave her the wrong age…_

Rachel had a curious look on her face. Then she laughed. Blood rushed into Quinn's face from embarrassment.

She leaned toward Quinn with a wide grin. "No, I didn't know that. Tell me, Quinn Fabray who jumps in front of taxis, do you know anymore interesting facts?"

Quinn fell in love all over again. Even _this_ Rachel loved her irrelevant facts. Quinn propped her head onto her hands. They both inched toward each other across the table.

"Did you know…"

Rachel and Quinn spent the next hour giggling and debating over the random information that Quinn knew for whatever reason.

Quinn looked at the girl across from her after they were both red in the face. She had forgotten about the two years she spent without Rachel at her side. She had forgotten about the deal she made.

All she knew was that Rachel was breathtaking. The way her cheeks dimpled when she smiled and the way she threw her head back when she laughed—Quinn wanted to lean over and kiss her senseless.

"Do you want to play a game?" Quinn asked with bright eyes.

"Are you sure we've never met? I love games." Rachel bobbed her head excitedly.

"I'm going to ask you five questions about yourself. If I get all five right, then you have to go on a date with me." Quinn rushed. She knew she'd get them right. She knew Rachel.

Rachel frowned and looked at her empty cup. "I—I… I'm actually getting married in two weeks… I'd love to go out with you as friends. I haven't had this much fun in a long time."

Quinn felt like she was falling apart. The two years without Rachel rushed back, and the deal she made was now in the forefront of her mind. She clenched her fists under the table and sighed.

She couldn't let Rachel see how much it hurt—it wouldn't make sense. So she smiled.

"Who's, um… who's the lucky person?" Quinn faltered. Her grin looked more like a grimace.

"Finn. I met him in high school. He proposed right before I moved out here," Rachel said without meeting Quinn's watery eyes. She was looking out the frosted window.

Rachel wasn't wearing a ring. Quinn didn't want to ask why. She just wanted to leave.

"That's—I'm happy for you, Rach. Congratulations. I, uh, I have to get going," Quinn said while standing up. She looked down at the brunette twisting her straw wrapper.

"It was really nice to meet you, Rachel." Quinn extended her hand for Rachel to shake. She knew Rachel didn't understand why Quinn seemed so upset. She wished she could tell her.

Rachel stood and met her hand with conflicted eyes. "I'd still like to see you, Quinn. Let me give you my number." She turned toward the booth and dug through her purse to look for a piece of paper to give to Quinn.

"I should stop putting so much stuff in here. I'd really like to buy you dinner to thank you for saving me. Ah! Here we go," Rachel said happily. She snatched an old receipt from her purse and scrawled her number down against the table.

Quinn rushed out of the small cafe and into the cold air before Rachel could turn around. It killed her to leave like that, but she was sure it was for the best.

She jogged down the sidewalk away from the quaint cafe and raised her arm for a taxi. Several zoomed past and after several minutes one finally stopped.

Before she could give her address the driver turned around. The cabbie was a small woman with tan skin and a bright smile.

"I know where you live, Quinn Fabray. Thought you could get rid of me so easily? Please try not to break the rules next time," the cabbie said with a wink. "I guess I don't mind this body. Her thoughts are almost as filthy as mine—feisty, this one. I like it. Oh, where are my manners? My name is Santana. Let's get you home, Quinn."

Quinn dropped her head against the passenger seat. _Fuck_.


End file.
